


disaster baby

by soulofme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angsty-ish, Confessions, M/M, Teenagers, messy boys being messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulofme/pseuds/soulofme
Summary: From this angle, Keith’s eyes are pitch dark, glinting just right when the faint moonlight hits his cheek. His skin looks soft, a cry of warmth on this freezing night. James wants to wrap himself up in him, fit his fingers into all of Keith’s empty spaces so that he’ll never be forgotten.He doesn’t. He can’t.





	disaster baby

**Author's Note:**

> i keep saying i don't ship this but...like...i ship it

It’s cold outside, for spring. The air is salt-tinged, sharp on James’ tongue when he sucks it in. His toes curl in wet sand and he imagines the grains are scratching itty bits of his skin off, bits that’ll get washed away by the waves and disappear into the sea.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Keith says from beside him. His voice is gritty and raw. He smells like smoke and wildfires when he knocks an elbow against James’.

“Make me,” James says, just to see Keith’s eyes roll skyward.

There’s nothing gorgeous about the ocean after sunset. The sky is grey and ugly, the waves too cold, washing up plastic bottle caps and broken glass onto the shore. Everything pretty’s gone away to sleep with the sun.

He's been standing here for hours. His feet are sore. He bets his toes are all shriveled up. He shivers. He’s in a thin shirt. Ripped jeans. Something edgy he’d been trying out, when he’d tousled his hair with gel to give that whole _I care even when I don’t_ vibe. It’s his birthday. The big one-eight.

It’d been a small get together at Kinkade’s beach house. His parents are filthy rich, investment bankers or doctors or lawyers or _something_. James doesn’t know. Hadn’t listened when he’d been told because he hadn’t cared.

James, Rizavi, Leifsdottir, and of course Kinkade. Their little happy family.

And Keith Kogane, apparently. No one had told him about _that_.

Keith hadn’t looked twice at him. He’d been lounged across Kinkade’s couch when James showed up, drinking beer and crushing out cigarettes on the coffee table without even smoking them.

“You’re not my problem,” Keith says, with all the bite he’s known for, breaking James’ train of thought.

From this angle, Keith’s eyes are pitch dark, glinting just right when the faint moonlight hits his cheek. His skin looks soft, a cry of warmth on this freezing night. James wants to wrap himself up in him, fit his fingers into all of Keith’s empty spaces so that he’ll never be forgotten.

He doesn’t. He can’t.

“You never fail to remind me of that,” James says.

Keith shrugs. “Maybe you’ll remember, one of these days.”

“Yeah,” James mutters. “One of these days.”

They head back to the house then, freezing and damp from ocean spray. Kinkade’s gone, his shoes missing from the rack by the door. Rizavi and Leifsdottir are knocked out on the couch, bodies twisted at strange angles. James tosses a blanket over them without much thought before heading down the hall to the bedrooms.

Keith shuffles along behind him, quieter than usual. He drags his fingertips along the walls, eyes glued to his hands, and James stops so suddenly that Keith glares at him when he rams into his back.

“What?”

“Why are you here?” James asks.

Keith sighs. Soft and completely irritated.

“Kinkade invited me.”

“Kinkade invited you,” James echoes. When Keith shoots him an unamused look, James rolls his eyes. “To his beach house. On _my_ birthday.”

“Fucking ask him if you don’t believe me,” Keith grits out, stepping around James.

James narrows his eyes and follows Keith into the closest bedroom. It smells like air freshener, something warm and tropical. Sweet, like maybe pineapples or mangos. Keith throws himself on the bed, sand-crusted jeans and all, wiggling his bare toes in the carpet.

James presses his back to the wall and watches him. Keith raises himself to his elbows.

“Why’d you say yes?” James asks. It doesn’t make sense that Keith’s here. Keith doesn't fit into their group. He and James haven't fit together ever since they declared their rivalry back in middle school.

“I wanted to ruin your special day,” Keith drawls. “Is it working yet?”

“No,” James bites automatically, even though he’s been uneasy since he first got eyes on Keith.

Keith smirks knowingly. James glares at him until he realizes it’s useless.

He slides down the wall, knocking his head back against it for good measure. Keith crawls across the bed to reach the tiny radio on the nightstand, flicking through the stations until something, anything, comes in clearly.

“I’m getting a drink,” James says, when he can’t bear to look at Keith for another damn second.

Keith waves him off and rolls flat on his back. The radio’s playing some slow, sad shit.

James leaves the room but leaves the door open. There’re too many bedrooms in the godforsaken house. He’d like to make his way back without any incident.

He heads to the kitchen and opens the fridge. Beer, beer, and more beer. He grabs a Heineken and pops the cap on the edge of the counter. It’s bitter as shit. But he craves the burn.

Kinkade’s still gone, the fucker. Probably figured James would be pissed about Keith and took off. He’s smart. Too smart.

James grabs another beer and pops the cap off too. He takes them both back the bedroom, where Keith’s still laying in the center of the bed.

He holds the bottle over Keith’s face, dripping condensation onto the bridge of his nose. Keith blinks when the water trails down his cheeks. It makes him look like he’s crying.

He takes the bottle from James and sits against the headboard. James retreats to his spot on the floor and tries to drown away his misery.

James wiggles his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his Instagram feed. A hundred different pictures pop out at him. Colorful, artistic shots of expensive coffee, the beach at sunrise, smiling faces. He stops when he gets to pale skin, dark hair, a cherry red motorbike.

His eyes dart up to Keith. Keith has his eyes closed, beer cradled between his thighs. He bulked up, over the summer. The Keith in his memories is a twig, one that’d been drowning in his graduation gown. Now he’s got broad shoulders and thick thighs, with a small waist that James wants to see if he can wrap his hands clean around.

He shoots that thought dead.

“You still ride?” James asks, turning his phone towards Keith.

Keith’s eyes snap open. He shrugs.

“Sometimes.”

“Crazy fucker,” James says. Can’t help himself, really, because he likes the way Keith’s eyes darken at it. Violet turned black, like there’s a storm brewing inside of him.

“We’re not all cowards, Griffin,” Keith murmurs. He sounds tired.

Their drink their beers in silence. The radio’s fizzling. Keith shuts it up by slamming his palm against a button on the top.

“Why’d you come?” James ask, because he doesn’t know how to fucking _let go_. “Really.”

Keith groans.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude. Kinkade asked me. I said that already.”

“Since when do you listen to Kinkade?” James doesn’t know why he’s jumping to his feet, sloshing half-chilled beer on the back of his hand. “You fucking hate me. You fucking hate all of us.”

“Shut the hell up. You’re not important enough to hate.”

“ _Make me_.”

Keith puts his bottle on the nightstand and drags James down onto the bed with a fist curled tight in his shirt. This close, he smells like beer and soap, like an off-brand cologne that James hates himself for wanting to bottle up.

“What are you so pissed about?” Keith mutters. He’s not doing anything, just holding James in place.

He could get away, James thinks. It’d be real easy. He’d throw in a punch for good measure. Doesn’t matter that they haven’t punched each other in years, not since James got so fucking soft on Keith.

“You,” James says. Makes it sound like it should be obvious as hell.

It’s not, because his voice cracks and sounds all uncertain. Keith’s eyebrows furrow and James wants to kiss the space between them more than he wants to take his next breath.

“Say it like you mean it,” Keith breathes, taunting him because that’s all he’s good for.

James doesn’t. He pushes Keith away and drops himself down next to him, chugging his beer like he’s got something to prove. Keith laughs, quiet but still somehow obnoxious.

“Why are you such an asshole?” James asks.

“Keeps you away, doesn’t it?”

“Not very far,” James replies, because he’s drunk and far too open.

Keith gives him this look, wide-eyed and confused. It’d be cute on any one else. Looks stupid as fuck on him, though.

“You’re fucking wasted.”

James doesn’t bother with a response. He spreads his arms out on the bed, so much that one lands across Keith’s stomach. Keith doesn’t push him off or curse him out. Not like usual.

“Kinkade said you’d like it.”

“What?” James asks, leaning up. Keith rolls his eyes.

“That’s why I came.”

James sucks in a sharp breath. The last remnants of Heineken taste like absolute shit now.

“You’re out of you goddamn mind.”

“You like me,” Keith says decisively. “But you’re a fucking coward.”

“Stop saying that,” James shoves at him half-heartedly. His mind’s racing. “Fucking _Kinkade_ , man.”

For a man of little words, he suddenly has a lot to say. He and James are gonna have a nice long chat, once this dreadful night is over. Worst birthday in the history of birthdays.

“How long, anyway?” Keith murmurs curiously.

“Why the fuck do you wanna know?”

“Blackmail.” Keith doesn’t sound serious. Not at all.

“Since we were kids,” James grits out.

It doesn’t matter. None of this will fucking matter, come morning. They’re drunk as shit. They’ll be too busy nursing a hangover to give a damn about some half-assed confession. Or whatever the fuck this is supposed to be.

“You don’t hate me,” Keith says.

“I never did.” Never will, James doesn’t add. He’s not that pathetic.

“Prove it,” Keith says, leaning over him.

Little shit.

James looks at Keith’s lips, flaky and chapped to hell. He’s never heard of lip balm, apparently. Anyone else, and James would’ve been disgusted. But this is Keith.

So James kisses him. Bites him hard enough to bleed, presses his thumbs into the sharp jut of his hips, gives it to him so good that Keith will only think of him. He pulls away and controls his breathing, heart beating too fast, face warm from something other than alcohol. Keith’s got this glazed look in his eyes, lips all swollen and red now, and James wants him again, now and forever.

“You said I wasn’t your problem,” James says. It’s the only thing he can think of, right now, besides Keith’s skin under his hands.

“You’re not,” Keith mutters. “Not a problem, I mean.”

“ _Fuck_.”

Keith shuts him up with a kiss. It’s not soft and sweet, because that’s not who they are. They’ll probably never be like that. They’re jagged pieces, something broken and sharp that fits together even if they don’t really want to.

Except, James _does_. Wants Keith in every way he can get him. He doesn’t know what Keith wants, but it doesn’t matter as long as it’s James.

“You’re crazy as shit,” Keith mutters. He’s got a hand pressed against James’ chest, right against his pounding heart.

“I want you.”

No fanfare, no long-winded confession. Keith doesn’t need that. Would probably hate it, anyway. He likes directness. He likes straight-answers. He doesn’t like fucking around. He doesn’t like unnecessary words.

“Stop giving me shit,” Keith replies easily.

“What?”

“Stop giving me shit,” Keith starts again, pausing for a dramatically long time. Fucking prick. “Then you can have me.”

“Are you fucking negotiating?”

“I’m not doing this if you’re gonna fuck with me.”

“You think I’d do that?”

Keith shrugs, glancing off to the side. James takes a deep breath.

“I meant it. I want you. Swear to God. Swear on my life.”

“Alright, I fucking got it,” Keith bites. His lips are curled in an almost smile, though. It’s not much.

But it’s there, and James’ stomach twists at the sight of it. Keith’s eyebrows pinch together again and this time James really _does_ kiss the wrinkle between them. He listens to Keith’s breathing stutter and drops his hands to his sides, feeling sand grains scrape against his skin.

“It’s your lucky day, Griffin,” Keith says then.

James falls back onto the bed and drags Keith down with him. They end up squished against each other, Keith’s head pressed against his chest. His hair tickles James’ nose every time he breathes in.

“Happy birthday to me,” he says, far too happy, and laughs when Keith attempts to smother him with a pillow.


End file.
